


Cut

by eiraparr8



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 04:39:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eiraparr8/pseuds/eiraparr8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He's claiming her, just as Joffrey did." After Sansa marries Jaime Lannister, the marks on her body begin to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cut

When she was a little girl, not much younger than she is now in years but still it seems like a lifetime ago, her skin was pale and smooth and didn’t have any of the marks that covered her siblings. Unlike Arya, Sansa didn’t have scraps and bruises from running around Winterfell and joining their brothers in mock fights. She’d look at Arya’s hands, the stubbiness of her fingers, the blisters and pinpricks, and then at her own, long and pale, and to her mind, elegant and lady-like. She’d see Arya’s many bruises and a feeling would wash over her, a little smug but more like certainty, that she’d never allow her skin to become that mottled, that stained.   
At King’s Landing, her skin became her enemy; it was too pale, too easily broken by the fists and weapons of the Kingsguard. Her body became covered in bruises and cuts, each mark a symbol of how weak she was. Those marks are faded now, not the searing red or deep black and purple, but they linger fresh in her mind, scars she knows all too well. The new marks on her body now are of different type altogether, ones that make her face turn a bright, ugly red; much like the old ones it’s relatively easy to conceal them beneath layers of clothing, but they’re burned into her nonetheless.   
He’s claiming her, just as Joffrey did.   
*  
Jaime returns to their chamber just as Sansa’s getting ready to leave, gathering her sewing things and ensuring her mask is firmly fixed. She’s still wary about spending time with the Queen, the Queen Regent, and the other ladies of court, but she’s prepared to speak her courtesies and smile that practiced smile. Still, she’d rather keep to her chambers, even though her husband’s there, sweaty and filthy and sprawled on their sofa.   
“Leaving so soon?” he asks, a feline smile on his face that she doesn’t quite believe. He might be smiling, but he looks tired and there’s a bloody cloth wrapped around his flesh hand.   
“I’m to join the Queen and her ladies,” she tells him.   
“Just the Queen?”  
“The Queen Regent as well,” she says. Lately he’s become sloppy about concealing his thoughts and feelings about his sister, which Sansa thinks is odd considering the years of practice he’s had.   
He gestures to her and slowly she sits besides him, her nose wrinkling at the mingling smells of sweat and blood. Gingerly, she takes his hand and pulls the cloth away, not allowing herself to react as she takes in the wound. It’s small, a cut that Robb wouldn’t have noticed, one Arya would have scoffed at before simply continuing her activities. Jaime probably wouldn’t have noticed it if it hadn’t been on his remaining flesh hand.   
“I’ll send for a maester,” she tells him.   
“It’s just a scratch,” he replies, trying to pull his hand away. “Hardly worth troubling anyone.”  
“It could become infected--”  
“As your husband, it’s my duty to tell you that you worry too much,” he smiles like he’s trying to reassure her.   
His hand slips from hers and instead tugs at her hair, releasing it from the intricate knot. She shivers a little as his fingers caress her neck, and as usual she can’t help but despise herself a little for closing her eyes and leaning into his touch instead of acting like her sister. Arya wouldn’t have stood quietly and married not one, but two Lannisters, Arya wouldn’t have submitted to being wedded and bedded by the Kingslayer. Arya wouldn’t behave as she did now, lips meeting lips, tangling her hands in his golden hair. She can’t even reassure herself that it’s an act on her part, that she’s playing a part in order to survive, not when that low, base twinge of desire is coursing through her, her body betraying her yet again. If anything, being married to Jaime Lannister merely shows that while she’s the last surviving Stark, the lone wolf, she’s the least worthy, the one who changes her skin and name with ease as long as it ensures her survival.   
His lips attack her neck, nipping at her skin and when she protests, trying to tug his lips back to hers, his tongue soothes her skin and he shifts them so she’s pinning him against the sofa. Over his shoulder she catches a glimpse of them in the mirror, her auburn hair spilling across both of their faces, mixing with his golden hair, red and gold intertwining. She looks wanton and loose, and she wonders what her mother would say if she could see her daughter now, reduced to sighs and moans because the Kingslayer’s hand is stroking her thigh, skimming beneath her small-clothes. He breaths a name against her skin and it might be her own, though she’s been wrong about that before. Then his fingers make her forget what she was thinking, and he twists them once more so she’s on her back, her legs around his hips.   
When they're like this, she can forget who they are.   
*  
When she’s finally ready to leave, her hair spills across her back in loose waves and she has to straighten her gown.   
“I’m afraid I’ve made you quite late,” Jaime says, neither looking nor sounding in the least bit sorry.   
“I doubt anyone will notice,” she lies. Cersei will notice and once she takes in Sansa’s appearance, the rumpled dress and gown, the fresh marks on her neck, she’ll certainly care.   
She turns back to the door and watches her husband as he clumsily pours a cup of wine. He’s not unmarked by their brief encounter-- his clothing’s mussed, his hair’s a mess. There’s even a small mark on his neck and she smiles at this; the marks she leaves on him are normally kept to his back, are normally tentative scratches, but this mark is visible and achingly deliberate.   
Only one person will truly care, but the thought of it still makes Sansa smile a real, if faint, smile.


End file.
